


Trust and Ugly Truths

by Actual_Writing_Trashcan



Series: Colossus Hyperfixation Collection [44]
Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, First Time, I'm not sorry, Loss of Virginity, Mentions of Death, Smut, and then it got really angsty out of nowhere, don't listen to the tags this an angst fic, everything is consensual though i swear, mentions of abuse, there's just a lot of insecurities that have to be dealt with, this was supposed to be fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 15:01:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18780643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Actual_Writing_Trashcan/pseuds/Actual_Writing_Trashcan
Summary: You and Piotr head out on his yearly, week long art retreat. You're excited to have him all to yourself, but before you can enjoy that you have to address the burgeoning anxieties and insecurities rattling around in your brain.Fun stuff.(Set after "Dig the Needle In" and before "THIS IS HALLOWEEN.")[All warnings in the tags, but just so we're clear: this is an angst fic.]





	Trust and Ugly Truths

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sorry for this.

In your time out in the real world, you’ve come to marvel out how spaces blend into one another.

In your home town, for instance, it was all too obvious that you were in the middle of nowhere. The roads were roughly made, mostly gravel. The nearest town with an actual store was twenty minutes away. There were only houses, a church, and a small gas station. What ground wasn’t covered by trees and grass was taken over by corn and soy fields.

There hadn’t been any traffic noises. There were so few lights at night that you could practically see the whole galaxy when the sky was clear. Everyone knew everyone’s history and present business.

The trap of isolation, veiled under the veneer of small town charm.

You’ve never been so glad to leave it behind.

New York is practically the opposite of where you grew up. It’s big, it’s loud, there’s something always going on. Even out by Xavier’s –which is the richest end of New York, where people can have a buttload of property like Charles does—there’s always some sort of road or air traffic going on.

No matter how clear the night is, you can never see more than a few stars on the horizon. Fucking light pollution.

The house looks like it’s tucked in the middle of nowhere. It’s positioned in the center of a lush grass lawn dotted with various wildflowers. There’s a large oak tree on the left of the driveway that covers half of the single-story building. Behind you, the only thing you can see are miles of fields and trees, save for a few mountains further off.

You know you’re not in the middle of nowhere. You had to drive through a bustling city to get to here.

From man to Mother Nature, in less than five minutes.

Piotr puts an arm around your shoulder and smiles down at you. “What do you think?”

He’d made the suggestion to you a few weeks ago; he takes an art sabbatical every year during the summer, where he rents a house for a week and just  _creates_.

He normally goes alone, but he’d asked you to come along this time.

Which means that the two of you will have an entire  _house_. To  _yourselves_. For a  _week_.

Which has some  _marvelous_  implications.

Admittedly, you’re not entirely confident about being out here without some repression serum on hand as a backup. But, with your secret having been outed by Wade –you’re still a little miffed about that—there’s no way you’d manage to sneak it past Piotr.

There’s plenty of space for you to run off to if you do slip into an episode, though. And you know you saw a hospital on your way through the city, which means that if shit goes really sideways, there’s people who can help.

You smile up at your boyfriend. “I think it’s perfect. Can we go inside?”

He slings your bag over his shoulder and nods. “ _Da_.”

 

* * *

 

The inside of the house is perfect. Piotr’s been here before, so he heads straight to unpack, but you take the opportunity to explore everything.

There’s a sun room that’s basically wall to wall windows that has the most  _breathtaking_  view of the field behind the house. It’s all lush green grass and stately trees and clusters of bright, beautiful wildflowers.

It’s idyllic. There’s no other way to describe it.

There’s also a kitchen that also overlooks the field behind the house. The fridge is empty –which is probably fortunate, all things considered—but there are dishes in the cabinets –plates, cups, some cookware, and so on.

There’s a living area that has a massive couch and a TV that overlooks the driveway—

And that’s basically it, save for a few odd closets, a bathroom, and two bedrooms.

You pad down the hall that leads to the bedrooms and poke your head in each one.

There’s a queen-sized bed in each room, which means that you and Piotr could feasibly share without being cramped.

Well, without  _him_  being cramped; you’ve slept on top of him before –literally—without so much as a bad dream.

And this isn’t the first time you’ve shared a bed with Piotr –you two have snuggled up together on weekends and on random nights where one of you wants the company—but this is the first time you’ll be sharing a bed while having  _an entire house to yourselves_.

You fuss at your lower lip with your teeth while you try to process everything around the nervous energy coiling in your lower abdomen.

The two of you haven’t had sex yet. Piotr keeps a genuinely busy schedule all year round, between being a teacher, a mentor, a trainer, and an X-Men, and you’re usually busy getting into some sort of trouble with Wade.

And, schedules aside, Piotr also put the brakes on sex-related stuff early on in your relationship. He’s the kind of guy that likes to take things slow, yeah, but he also specifically told you at the start of all this that he wanted to make sure you had time to adjust into being out of an abusive household and feel comfortable with being in a romantic partnership.

And it was definitely the right move at first, because there was so much you didn’t know, but now you’ve  _had_  time, so…

You’re not exactly sure how it all adds up, in the end.

_One thing at a time_ , you repeat the mantra your therapist, Alyssa, keeps telling you in your head.  _Pick the easiest, most obvious, most concrete thing you can handle first, then move to the next thing_. You clear your throat and poke your head into the room where Piotr’s unpacking. “Are we sharing a room, or do you want your own bed?”

Piotr shrugs as he hangs up a pair of jeans –because he’s the kind of person that  _hangs_  his  _jeans_ , the dork. “Up to you. I am good with either option.”

Which is a little nerve-wracking, because you don’t  _want_  to be in charge of a decision like this –but you also know that Piotr’s not passive aggressive when it comes to stuff like this. He genuinely wants you to be comfortable, and whatever choice makes you feel safe is the choice that’ll make him happy.

Fuck it, you want to sleep next to your boyfriend.

You toss your bag into his room, then flop onto the bed dramatically and waggle your eyebrows at him when he looks your way. “‘Sup?’”

He smiles and shakes his head as he goes back to unpacking his stuff. “I would think you would want to unpack.”

You consider it for a moment, then hop off the bed, walk over to your bag, and fling the zipper open with zealous abandon.

There’s a dresser centered on the wall opposite the foot of the bed. You shove your unmentionables and socks in one drawer, shirts and shorts in the other, and cram your pajamas, cosmetics, and toiletries into a third. You shove the last drawer shut, fold your duffel bag in half, and then chuck it onto the closet floor. “Done.”

He chuckles and rolls his eyes. “Seriously?”

“Yup. I’m gonna go see if the TV has a Netflix account.”

The way his laughter follows you down the hall tells you he’s shaking his head again.

 

* * *

 

Everything goes well after that. The two of you head out to get some groceries, and then Piotr sets up his easel in the sunroom and settles into all his… art… stuff.

You bounce between hanging out with him, exploring outside, and watching Netflix on the TV.

After a couple hours, the two of you make dinner –meaning Piotr cooks and you hang out and generally act unhelpful—then chill on the couch and watch a movie while you eat.

And then once the movie’s over and it’s time to wind down, all the nervous energy come back over  _what the fuck is going to happen_?

You’re comfortable sleeping next Piotr; you know he’s not a groper, he respects your space, and that he incredibly tactful about dealing with whatever “morning wood” crops up.

You’re just not sure… what all  _he’s_  expecting on this trip.

Alyssa’s voice pipes up in your head:  _No harm in asking_.

Which, given the rules of consent Wade’s taught you –and re-taught you—about, you suppose there really isn’t.

You clear your throat as you dry off one of the plates you’d used for dinner. “So, uh, what happens tonight?”

Piotr raises an eyebrow at you, which is probably the most charitable reaction you could get considering how vague and off-the-wall your question was. “I… do not follow.”

“Like…” You can feel yourself start to sweat.  _Ew_. “Uh… this is probably gonna sound really awkward…”

He leans back against the counter and smiles fondly. “Awkward is fine,  _myshka_.”

“Okay.” You take a deep breath, then blurt it out. “Are we gonna have sex? Like, tonight? Or at all, while we’re here? Because, like, this is the first time we’ve got some decent space to ourselves, so…”

Piotr, to his credit, keeps  _remarkable_  control over his facial features while you ramble. He crosses his arms over his chest and considers your question with the utmost dignity and seriousness. The corner of his mouth turns up when you finally cut yourself off and stare expectantly at him. “Do you want to have sex while we are here?”

“I don’t know!” You flail your arms around dramatically, hoping that the awkward, jilted movements will convey just how much you don’t have a fucking clue as to what you’re doing. “I don’t know what you’re, like, expecting or anything!”

He draws you into a gentle, soothing hug and kisses the top of your head. “I am not expecting anything. I only asked you on this trip because I wanted to spend time with you, whatever that means. If we do not have sex –tonight or at all—that is fine.”

You tilt your head back, propping your chin against his chest so you can see his face. “And if we do?”

The corner of his mouth turns up in a smile, and he shrugs. “I have no complaints.”

“Okay.” You frown suddenly as another wave of nervousness hits you, and you duck your head to hide. “I mean –I don’t know about tonight, or anything like that, so…”

Piotr kisses the top of your head as he rubs soothing circles up and down your back. “How about we just rest tonight. No need to try and force things.”

You let out a sigh of relief and nod. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

 

* * *

 

The first few days go well.

Good.

Alright.

Decent.

Okay.

Sort of.

The problem isn’t Piotr. He’s a perfect gentleman; he snuggles you at night without any attempts to pressure you into anything, he makes you breakfast in the morning since it takes you twice as long to wake up as he does, he puts up with your random popping in and out of his space without any irritation or complaints whatsoever.

No, Piotr’s amazing. No surprises there.

The problem, perhaps unsurprisingly, is you.

You think part of the issue might be leaving the house so soon after coming off the repression serum. You’re not used to being without it, not used to not having it on hand as a “safety.” Even though therapy’s going well, you’re nowhere near to being out of the woods yet.

You’ve killed people before during episodes. You could do it again.

And this little house, as wonderful as it is, isn’t your uncle’s place. It’s isn’t out in the middle of nowhere, where there’s no risk of harming some sort of innocent bystander that just happened to be driving down the road while you were in the midst of a freak out.

And Piotr, as wonderful as he is, isn’t your uncle. Tough and largely invulnerable as he is when armored up, his armor isn’t foolproof. He can’t bat larger projectiles away before they get close to him –or protect his lungs and organs if you accidentally raise the air pressure of the surrounding area.

That’s why you went to your uncle for help in the first place. Your identical mutations mean that he can protect himself from you.

Piotr, on the other hand, can’t.

Simple facts.

And Piotr’s never seen you lose it before. Sure, he’s dealt with the  _aftermath_ , but he’s never seen you go through an episode. He’s never seen you destroy a building, or toss trees around like baseballs, or rip up chunks of ground like they’re nothing more than cotton candy.

He has no basis for how much of a  _mess_  you are.

And if the two of you were having sex, it’d be easy to put together just what  _he’s_  getting out of the relationship. A simple connection, really: pleasure, endorphins, intimacy,  _something_.

But the two of you aren’t, and you doubt you’re really giving him anything else, so—

_What is he even getting out of all this?_

 

* * *

 

Your internal downward spiral of negative thinking shows.

Because of course it does. Nothing can ever be simple in your life, after all.

(If there’s a God that governs over this universe, you’re flipping them off right now.)

 

* * *

 

You try to not let your anxiety show through, really. You don’t want to burden Piotr with the maelstrom going on inside your head. He came here to relax, he brought along so the two of you could have a good time, and you want to give him both those things,  _dammit_.

But because Piotr has  _eyes_  in his head –and knows your tics—you don’t get much past him for long.

He busts you –gently, politely—after two days of basically flinching when the two of you engage in any physically affectionate contact.

“Something is bothering you.” He grabs your hand before you can dart out of the sunroom and lock yourself in the bathroom. “Talk to me,  _moya lyubov’_. What is wrong?”

You swallow hard and look very pointedly at the floor, because the wood grain really is that fascinating,  _thank you very much_. “Nothing.”

He squeezes your hand gently. “Y/N. Please.”

You sigh and look out the window –and, okay, the view of the field is definitely more interesting than the floor. “I’m just… I’m not sure what you’re getting out of all this.”

His frown is visible out of the corner of your eye. “I… I do not follow. Do you mean this trip?”

“No.” You bite down on the inside of your cheek in a vain –useless—attempt to hold back tears and gesture between the two of you. “ _This_. Us. Our relationship. I can’t figure out what you’re getting out of it.”

He goes completely silent and still for a moment, then sets his paintbrush down and turns on his stool to face you fully, and  _oh lord_  you didn’t actually want to pull him out of his work— “How can you think such things?”

The clear hurt in his voice makes you recoil. “I’m sorry.” You wrench your hand out of his grip and dart out of the sunroom. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“ _Nyet, nyet, nyet_ —Y/N, stop.” He says it gently, pleadingly. “Please.”

You freeze, halfway down the hall to the bathroom, and look over your shoulder.

He holds out a hand to you –an olive branch. An offer. “Tell me what is hurting you. Please.”

You turn around, but cross your arms over yourself in a hug. You take a step back when he steps towards you.

He grimaces, but steps back and leans against the wall. “ _Myshka_. Please.”

Not for the first time, you wonder if Piotr knows just how weak you are for that pet name, or if it’s sheer coincidence that he pulls it out whenever he wants you to do something you don’t want to.

Your lower lip trembles and you hug yourself tighter. “I’m… I’m a mess, Piotr. You have to do so much just to take care of me, and I can’t figure out what I’m even giving you in return. Like, what are you even getting out of this relationship?”

He frowns, eyes shining with tears that won’t fall just yet. “I do not understand. What is it you think I do for you that I should not?”

“I don’t know, you just –you put up with all my weird shit, and my baggage, and you help me with it and…” You flap your hands, irritated, when the words won’t come. “I feel like I’m having a meltdown or some sort of breakdown every other week, and you just roll with it! Who does that? What kind of relationship is that?”

“People help each other through tough situations,” Piotr says. “That is what we do.” He cocks his head to the side, frowning slightly as he regards you. “Perhaps it feels like too much because no one ever did it for you before you left home.”

And  _that_  cuts through everything, right into the softest parts of your core.

Because that’s the bitch of it, isn’t it. Of course any sort of decent, human treatment feels like it’s too much.

No one ever gave you that benefit back where you grew up.

You knees give out and you crumple to the floor with a sob.

Piotr catches you –of course he does—and sweeps you up in his arms. He carries you out of the hall –it takes you longer than you’d like to admit to realize he takes you to the couch, but in your defense you’re busy crying.

 

* * *

 

He sits with you until you calm down, cradling you in his arms while you soak his shirt and rocking you back and forth gently.

He does that for a while.

You weren’t expecting such a harmless comment to cut you so deep.

Once you do calm down, he settles you on the couch, kisses your forehead, and leaves you with the instructions to “wait here” before he walks out of view.

You can hear him moving around the house while you sniffle and try to dry your face—

And then he’s back with a box of tissues, a glass of water, and a damp washcloth to cool your face off with.

Piotr Rasputin. Literal, actual saint.

You blow your nose until you can breathe properly again, then down the glass of water.

Piotr kneels in front of you once you’re done and starts gently patting your face with the damp cloth. “Do you remember when you first became grading assistant at Institute?”

You frown, confused by the sudden turn in conversation. “What?”

“You found out I did most of my grading alone because I require reinforced desk when in defense mode, remember? And you started bringing your grading in at end of day so I would not have to grade alone, remember?”

“Well, yeah, I didn’t want you to be all alone.”

He smiles softly. “And do you remember all the times you gave me advice on how to deal with Wade?”

“You were frustrated. I wanted to help.”

“ _Da_. And do you remember how you started telling ‘bad jokes’ with me when others were picking on my sense of humor? Or how you took care of me after Harmony?” He places the cloth on the back of your neck, then kisses your forehead. “You do so much for me without even realizing.”

“That doesn’t seem like a very long list,” you mutter nervously.

“It is not meant to be ‘full list,’” Piotr says patiently. “And relationships are not all about what we ‘get’ out of them. I also enjoy your companionship and love. I enjoy doing things with you. And, for me, I find much fulfillment in caring for you.”

“How so?” you ask, still frowning a little.

He settles next to you on the couch and draws you into his arms. “I feel satisfaction in nurturing others, loving them, caring for them.” He smirks a little. “It comes in handy for being teacher.”

You snort. “Yeah, I could see that.”

“Our relationship context is obviously different, but I feel same satisfaction in loving and caring for you. It brings me joy, makes me feel good about myself.”

“You’re sure it’s not to draining, though? I don’t want you to stay in a relationship because you just want to have someone to love.”

“ _Nyet_. And I am not with you just because I want ‘someone to love.’”

“If you say so,” you mutter, only partially convinced. “It’s just… I’m such a hot mess!”

“You are  _hurting_ ,” he corrects gently. “There is difference. I knew before I even realized I liked you that you would have baggage to work through. Most mutants do have baggage, after all.”

“There’s a difference between having ‘baggage’ and being a fucking basket case. I can’t go two weeks without having some sort of breakdown!”

He smooths your hair away from your face and kisses the top of your head. “I think, perhaps, you feel like you are ‘breaking down’ so much because you are always dealing with your anxiety and pain. From outside, you are remarkably stable and collected.”

You let out a huff, even as that hits you somewhere between the ribs as well. “Well, I don’t feel that way.”

“I know,” Piotr says as he kisses the top of your head again. “I know. But trust me when I say that you are enough for me, just as you are.”

Maybe he knows, somehow, that you really needed to hear that at this exact moment. Maybe he doesn’t. The intentions don’t matter; the words would’ve had the same effect on you either way.

You start crying again.

 

* * *

 

The rest of the day goes decently, all things considered. Piotr stays close to your side, lavishing you with affection and reassurance at every turn.

You, for your part, do your best to just soak it all in without making him feel guilty or uncomfortable.

It’s not easy. You’re still feeling unbelievably raw over everything –to say nothing of trying to process out the anger that you parents  _should have_  loved and supported you, and  _nothing_  about being treated  _decently_  should make you feel like it’s too much or you don’t deserve it.

You text Alyssa about some of it, and she tells you to challenge your negative cognitions, to listen to Piotr, and that you do deserve decent treatment –more than decent treatment—and that you are enough.

And that helps with the emotions, but not so much with the memories.

They keep hitting you, left and right, one moment after another where someone that you trusted, should’ve been able to trust, failed you, betrayed you,  _hurt_  you.

The constant slew of roiling emotion and rotten memories leaves you shaking; eventually, you and Piotr opt to settle on the couch and watch Netflix so you can calm down and tune out for a bit. He lets you pick the most obnoxious cartoons there are and doesn’t complain once.

He even orders pizza for dinner, the saint.

You keep waiting for an episode to hit, for the tell-tale signs of impending destruction to fire off and cue you to bolt out the nearest exit and get clear of civilization as fast as you can. With all the traumatic memories flashing through your mind at a moment’s notice, you’d think an episode, of all things, would be a given. A shit cherry on top of a shitty, shitty sundae of a day.

But the afternoon passes. And then dinner. And then the evening. And then you’re getting ready for bed and you still haven’t had an episode. You don’t even feel one winding up.

You lay down next to Piotr, a little disquieted by unexpected lack of disaster.

Maybe the universe can be kind after all.

 

* * *

 

And it can. Right up until the moment that it decides it really, truly won’t be.

You wake up from a vicious nightmare –the cold, heartless depths of the forest, laughing men with glinting guns, scrapped knees and shaking hands—to the light from the lamp on Piotr’s nightstand and his hands on your shoulders.

“ _Myshka_ —”

You can’t pay attention to him, or what he’s saying, or the fact you’re  _safe_ , because the curtains are flapping like they’re in the middle of a hurricane despite the fact that the windows are closed.

All the sleep and exhaustion drains out of you as you realize what’s happening.  _I have to get out of the house_.

You book it out of the room and out the back door as the memories start to press in on you. You run as far from the house as you can, then launch yourself away with a burst of air when you think –you hope—you’re far enough away to keep from decimating the building.

The last clear thought you have before everything goes dark is ‘ _I hope I land somewhere soft_.’

 

* * *

 

The episode goes as all your episodes go –you scream, you destroy the space around you, you beg for it all to end…

And then it does.

You collapse down against the dirt, gasping and panting as the voices from your past to fade. You’re slowly registering that parts of your body that hurt –you think that you skinned your knees when you landed—

And then Piotr kneels down next to you, blue eyes wide with alarm.

_He’s okay_ , you think, a little shocked as he scoops you into his arms.

He shushes you gently and kisses your forehead when you whimper. “It’s okay. Let’s get you inside.”

 

* * *

 

The house, miraculously, is still standing. Even all the windows are still intact. Go you.

Piotr carries you inside and sets you in the bathroom; he disappears for a moment, then returns with a first aid kit.

“You packed a first aid kit?” you eke out between sniffles as he sets a toolbox sized first aid kit on the sink.

“It pays to be prepared,” he says, smiling grimly. “Not many places treat mutants.”

He cleans you up first –you’ve got scrapes on your knees and arms, but you’re not too much worse for wear—then goes about applying a decent layer of antibiotic ointment on your wounds before bandaging them.

You watch him work, a little numb and worn out from everything. “This is why I like to have the repression serum on hand.”

His response is automatic. “It is not good for you.”

“I know.” You sigh and let your head lean back against the wall. “But shit like this is why I have it on hand. It’s exhausting. And dangerous –not just for me, but anyone nearby, too.”

“I know, I know. But repression serum is not good for you. You need to address your trauma, instead of hide from it. Besides, serum is difficult to obtain.”

You swallow the bile rising in your throat. “Not if you know where to find it.”

It’s the one thing the two of you haven’t really talked about since your return from your uncle’s.

Your first stash of mutation repression serum had been your parents’. You took every last bottle they’d had when you ran away from home, just in case.

It’d been a lot, considering the dose levels and limits, but it hadn’t been enough. Eventually, you’d run out of the stuff.

And there’d only been one other place you could think of that would have it.

So you went to Harmony. You broke into the little den of death they had out in the woods and stolen every last bottle they’d had.

After you killed the group of twenty men guarding the place.

That little detail had revealed itself during your first confrontation in the Professor’s office with your friends and family; you and Piotr had talked about it during your phone call back to the Institute, and he’d brushed it of as an unfortunate aspect of your trauma from growing up in an abusive home. It was tragic, and it was ugly, but it wasn’t your fault. Not technically.

But this is Piotr ‘Rules Are Important and Exist For a Reason’ Fucking Rasputin. There’s no way in hell he actually thinks that.

Right?

You sigh when Piotr doesn’t push the issue. “We need to talk about this. About what I did.”

Piotr, to his credit, doesn’t try to sidestep the issue or address something else because you’re ‘being vague.’ He just looks at you calmly. “We have talked about it.”

“Not enough.”

He regards you for a moment, then relents with a nod of his head as he resumes patching up your knee. “Say whatever you need to say.”

“Oh, come on,” you scoff, agitated. “Is that all you have about this?”

“What are you expecting from me?” he asks, voice still even and calm, if a little confused. “What do you want me to say?”

“I killed people, Piotr.” Tears start welling up in your eyes. “I killed twenty people to get to the repression serum.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “I know you did.”

You glare at him, though the expression is undercut by your teary eyes and trembling lower lip. “So why are you still with me? Piotr, you’re the biggest fucking rules person I know, and I broke the biggest one in the book. Why are you even giving me the time of day?”

“Tell me this,” he says as he packs up the first aid kit again. “Did you go to bunker with specific intention to murder people?”

“I knew they would be there.”

“But was your goal to kill, or to retrieve repression serum?”

You sigh. “You can’t justify it like that.”

“I am not justifying,” he retorts. “You do not make goals to kill others, you do not believe you have right to kill others. That is more important.”

“But I  _did_  kill people!” you snap, tears finally starting to fall. “Twenty of them! You lambast Wade and Nate and people like them for killing people! Why not me?”

“Because they believe they have right to kill. You do not.”

“You can’t make excuses for me—”

“I make excuses for  _your_  benefit,” he interjects quickly as he sits down on the edge of the tub. “Not for mine.”

You blink, confused. “What?”

“You never forgive self for any mistake you make. I do not want you to torment yourself over this for many years to come.”

“Killing people is a pretty big ‘mistake,’ Piotr.”

He shrugs. “I genuinely see two different things in you and others. Rule is rule,  _da_ , but…” He sighs. “Despite what Wade says, I know that life is complicated. That there are times when killing becomes necessary. However, unlike Wade, I do not believe that it is quality of person that dictates necessity. I believe it is context of situation. Your situation was –is—different enough that there was necessity.” He pauses for a minute, then shrugs again. “Perhaps that makes me hypocrite. I do not care. It is still who I am, and who I am also loves you. The two do not fight, so I am not troubled.”

You scrub at your face as your shoulders shake. You’re not used to unconditional acceptance like his; you can’t process how simple it is to forgive you when you can’t even forgive yourself.

But, then again, you also know better.

“I didn’t have to kill them,” you whisper into the quiet bathroom. “I could’ve just knocked them out. I chose to kill them anyway.”

And there it is: the big, black, ugly truth of it all.

You always had another option. There was always a way out of killing the men in Harmony.

You hadn’t taken it.

What did that make you?

You close your eyes and curl in on yourself. You know this is it, that this is the moment when Piotr will see sense and cut you loose.

Like you deserve.

You sob into your hands, bracing yourself for the inevitable sting of rejection. You know Piotr will be kind about it because that’s who he is –but maybe that’ll just make things hurt worse.

Piotr sighs heavily. His footsteps are soft against the tiled floor –he’s a light walker for such a big guy—and then you can hear the soft fabric rustle of his clothes that tells you he’s kneeling in front of you.

You starting shaking.  _Here it comes_.

“I know.”

It takes you a minute to process what he’s said –and then you jerk your head up and look at him because  _what?_

He smiles softly, sadly at you. “I know you had other options, Y/N. I am trainer for X-Men, after all. It is my job to help mutants find other options.”

You stare at him mutely as your brain tries to process what he’s saying.

“I knew the moment you confessed in Xavier’s office that you had other options. And I knew that what had happened did not change how I felt about you –how I feel about you.” His smile grows just a little bigger. “Nothing of what happened at Harmony, nothing of what you did can make me love you any less.”

You draw in gasps that match your shaking body tremble for tremble. You can’t process what you’re hearing. You can’t trust it, can’t believe it.

You do your best to swallow the lump in your throat. “Why?”

Piotr lets out a gentle chuckle. “I think if I were to list thousand reasons why, you would find ways to argue with all of them.” He takes your hands in his and gently uncurls your fists. “So I will just say this: I love you, and none of the mistakes you made or flaws you have –or think you made or think you have—are going to change that. I knew from when you told me you loved me back that there would be difficulties we would face because of trauma you suffered, and I knew it might be messy like this.” He smiles sweetly at you. “And knowing that still changed nothing.”

“You’re not breaking up with me?” you breathe, disbelieving.

He shakes his head. “ _Nyet_. Never.”

The tears start falling again, and you slide off the toilet lid and into his arms.

He scoops you up and stands with a soft groan. “Come on,  _myshka_ ,” he whispers as he carries you out of the bathroom, turning off the light as he crosses over the threshold into the hallway. “Let’s get some sleep.”

 

* * *

 

You wake up next morning –barely, it’s almost noon when you finally open your eyes—with Piotr at your back and his arm draped over your waist.

He’s still with you. He hasn’t left.

He exhales against the back of your neck, making you shiver head to toe.

The movement wakes him up. He inhales sharply, grunting a little before pulling you closer to him and kissing the back of your head. “ _Dobroye utro, myshka_.”

His voice is groggy and just a little rough in your ear, accent a touch thicker since he’s not fully awake yet, and  _man_  does it do something for you.

You roll over so you’re facing him and sling a leg over his hips. “Good morning, handsome.”

The corner of his mouth turns up in a grin. “Handsome, am I?”

You grin back. “Extremely.” And with that, you wiggle just a little closer to him and press your lips against his.

Piotr sighs into the kiss and smooths his hand up your back, gently pulling you closer to him.

You run your hand over arm, pausing at his bicep to appreciate –grope at, whatever—the thick cords of muscle there. You manage to fish your other arm through the gap between his shoulder and the pillow his head is resting on, then maneuver your hand so you can run your fingers through his thick black hair.

He moves from your lips to your cheek, barely-there stubble scratching at your skin as he trails kiss over your face.

You let out a soft moan when he presses a firm kiss against your jaw and tilt your head back to give him better access.

This feels good. It feels right.

You let out a soft gasp when Piotr rolls you onto your back, thus positioning his hips between your thighs. The soft pants he wears when he sleeps are far less restrictive than the jeans or slacks he normally wears, which means you can tell  _just_  how aroused he is—

And you’re not nervous. Excited, yes, but you’re not  _scared_.

You can trust Piotr. You knew that before, but you can feel it all the way through you now, from the top of your head to the tips of your toes.

He’s not going to abandon you.

You wrap your other leg around his hips, arch your back so your chest is pressed against his—

And then your stomach decides to imitate a dying whale.

Piotr stops kissing your neck, looks down at your stomach, then at you.

The two of you start giggling together.

“Come,” he says, kissing your temple before rolling so you’re on top. He adjusts his grip on you so he can carry you easier, then stands and carries you towards the kitchen. “We ought to eat breakfast.”

 

* * *

 

Breakfast – _lunch_ , you’re going by time of day—consists of reheated pizza and coffee.

You shoot Piotr a teasing look when he bites into his slice. “I didn’t take you as the ‘pizza for breakfast’ type.”

He winks at you. “I am on vacation.” He takes another bite, washes it down with some coffee, then shoots you a concerned look. “How are you feeling today?”

“A little tired,” you admit. “But better. About all of it. I mean, I’m still having a little trouble wrapping my head around some of it, but yeah. Better.”

He leans against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest. “What are you struggling with?”

You shrug with one shoulder. “Just… a lot. More as it relates to me than you.”

Maybe Piotr can forgive your mistakes, but you can’t. Not yet, anyway, and if you ever get there it won’t be because of some technicality that’ll make it all seem better.

There aren’t many technicalities when it comes to death.

But you trust Piotr; he doesn’t play mind games, and he doesn’t lie to you. If he says he doesn’t blame you for the deaths you caused in Harmony, if he says he’s not holding it against you, then he isn’t.

And maybe that’s all you need. A safe place to come back to.

The corner of Piotr’s mouth turns up in a small smile. “Well, just remember, I would not have pursued you if I was not willing to take good with difficulties.”

And the comment does make you genuinely feel warm and fuzzy all over –but you can’t resist being a toad.

“Right, because pet-naming me for a year in a language I don’t understand is the same as ‘pursuing’ me.” You poke him in the ribs, giggling at his protests until he grabs your hand and whirls so you’re pinned between him and the counter.

He smirks at your surprised expression, but the smirk quickly fades as he dips his head to press his lips against yours.

Your eyelids flutter shut and you sigh happily into the kiss. You run your free hand up his torso and over the broad planes of his chest.

This.  _This_  is how you wanted this trip to be. Not a bunch of insecurities and negative emotions that needed tending to.

_Oh well. Better late than never_.

Eventually, Piotr sighs and breaks the kiss with a smile. “We should probably get dressed.”

You grin up at him. “I don’t know. I’m kinda in a ‘pajama day’ mood.”

“Well,  _I_  want to get dressed.” He chuckles. “Heaven knows you only do what you want.”

You laugh with him as he lets go of your hand –though not before pressing a kiss to your knuckles—and ambles out of the kitchen to get ready for the day. You watch him go, lovestruck.

And yes, you ogle the way the muscles in his back and shoulders move underneath his shirt. You’re only human, after all.

 

* * *

 

The rest of the day proceeds similarly –unhurried, calm, happy. Piotr draws and paints in the sunroom, while you pop around the house as you please.

You scamper out to the field outside the sunroom at one point and strikes various comical poses until Piotr notices; watching him laugh through the windows makes you grin like an idiot and it’s so worth it.

The two of you spend a lot of time being physically affectionate, too. Kisses, hugs, snuggling, all of it.

After two days of worrying over whether or not Piotr was happy with being with you, it feels good.

 

* * *

 

A storm rolls down the mountains and breaks during the evening, shaking the trees and drenching the ground and blacking out the sun.

You peer out the windows of the sunroom as the sky takes its anger out on the world. “I kind of wanna go run around in the rain. It’s warm enough outside; I wouldn’t get sick.”

Piotr makes a noise of disapproval from the living room. “News says thunderstorms are rolling through soon. I would stay inside.”

You listen for a minute. “I don’t hear any thunder. And I haven’t seen any lightning.” You look over your shoulder when he sighs. “I’d only be out for five minutes. It’ll be fine!”

He shakes his head. “I do not think it is safe.”

You can see his reasons for refusing. Lightning isn’t a force to messed with, much less taunted.

But your reasoning is just as valid. And you’re an adult, which means you can do what you want.

So you do.

You dart out the door in the sunroom and into the downpour, whooping and cackling with delight as you scamper around the field just behind the house. You’re soaked through to the bone in seconds, hair plastered to your face and neck.

You’ve never felt more alive, more free.

You turn and see Piotr watching you from the backdoor. He’s tucked under the awning, shielded from the torrential rain.

He’s smiling fondly, head cocked to one side.

You grin at him –then sprint towards him and wrap your arms around his waist before he can close the door to stop you. “I love you so much!” you squeal, knowing full well that you’re getting him wet when he didn’t want to be.

He narrows his eyes at you, grimacing—

And then he hauls you up over his shoulder and carries you out into the rain.

You squeal as he growls playfully and spins you around. You beam up at him when he sets you down. “Look at you! You’re all wet! How did that happen?”

He laughs and shakes his head before cupping your head in his hands. “Come here.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, holding yourself to him as he kisses you thoroughly.

Kissing in the rain. Cliché, but so,  _so_  good.

You laugh when Piotr breaks the kiss due to a clap of thunder rumbling overhead. “Alright, alright,  _okay_ —” You laugh again when he pushes you inside. “Relax. I’m not planning on staying out when there’s actual thunder going. I’m not completely stupid.”

“I do not think you are stupid at all,” Piotr counters as he wipes the water off his face. “But I do think we should do something about these wet clothes.”

 

* * *

 

There’s a washer and dryer in the bathroom. The two of you head there to strip out of your wet stuff and dry off.

Piotr’s loading up the dryer, a white, fluffy towel wrapped around his hips.

You lick your lips unconsciously as you watch the muscles in his back, shoulders, and arms flex and relax and hold your own towel tighter around your body.

Something sparks off in your brain, travelling down through your body and settling in your groin, low and warm.

You grip the edges of your own towel, hesitating for a moment before you shuck it off and toss it at Piotr’s head.

He flinches when it hits him and whips it away. He goes still when he realizes what he’s holding, then slowly turns to face you.

The look on his face as he takes the sight of your naked body in is nothing short of awestruck, like a man seeing the face of God for the first time, and it makes you feel…

Beautiful.

Amazing.

Loved.

_Powerful_.

You smile wantonly at him, and motion with your index finger for him to come closer to you.

He does so slowly, to give you space to pull away if you want to, but his eyes never stop roving over your whole body.

You reach out for him when he close enough, then pull him across the rest of the distance when he takes your hand. You press your chest against his – _and holy fuck_ , this much skin on skin contact is  _heavenly_ —go up on the tips of your toes so you can press your lips against his.

He’s already panting and straining underneath his towel, and all you’ve down so far is  _kiss_  him.

_Powerful_.

“Let’s go back to the bedroom,” you murmur against his lips.

He pulls his head back so he can see your face; it isn’t hard to guess at what you’re suggesting. “You are certain?”

You nod and press your hand against the back of his head to pull him down to your height. “Take me to bed, baby.”

He scoops you into his arms and carries you to the bedroom in three powerful strides. He turns and sits down on the bed, adjusting his hold on you so you’re straddling his lap.

You slide your arms over his shoulders as you kiss him, shiver when he runs his hands up and down your sides.

He breaks the kiss a few seconds later to look at you again. His pupils are blown wide, making his normally blue eyes look almost black. His cheeks are flushed, and his lips are red, kiss swollen, and shiny with both of your spit.

He’s gorgeous.

“What do you want?” he asks, voice low and soft. “What do you want right now?”

Clarification. No assumptions. Important steps in obtaining consent.

The thought of saying it out loud feels awkward, but you do your part anyway. “I want you to make love to me.” You let out an excited giggle, then tack on, “On the bed, preferably.”

Piotr chuckles and kisses your cheek. “On the bed it is, then.”

And then he’s touching and  _kissing_  you  _everywhere,_  and  _oh God_.

This isn’t the first time the two of you have “fooled around,” as it were. You’ve made out plenty, groped each other,  _touched_  each other, but this is the first time you’ve done any of it with the knowledge that you’re officially going to have to have sex after all of it. That you don’t have to stop.

It’s thrilling.

You shudder and whimper as he kisses his way back up your body. “Piotr – _please_ —”

He pauses to hover over you, taking in your expression as much as he is studying it for any sign of anxiety or hesitation. “You are sure?”

You nod. “Yeah. I want you.”

He kisses you then, passionate but brief, then breaks away with a smile. “There are some things to do first.”

You snicker as he pulls out a box of condoms from his nightstand. “And here I remember you saying you had no expectations for this trip.”

“Better to be prepared,” he says simply.

And then he’s got the condom on, and he’s lubed himself up, and  _oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck_ —

Piotr kisses your forehead. “Breathe.”

You take a deep breath and force yourself to calm down. “Sorry. Just… excited. And nervous.”

“If you want to stop—”

“I don’t want to stop,” you interject quickly. “It’s just… gonna be new.”

Piotr smiles softly and strokes your cheek with his thumb. “Take all the time you need. There is no rush.”

So you do. You take a moment to breathe and to let everything process, then nod. “Okay. I’m ready.”

He positions himself better between your hips, then stops again to look at you. “If anything hurts, or you do not like how it feels—”

“I’ll tell you. I promise.” You nudge his ass with your calf. “Come on, Rasputin. There might be no rush, but I don’t want to wait all day, either.”

He smirks, then lines himself up and pushes in as gently as he can.

It hurts. A little. It’s not the worst pain you ever experienced. It definitely isn’t the searing anguish you were expecting after the horror show that was your high school youth group purity class, but it’s not comfortable, either.

Piotr goes stock still when you let out a grunt of discomfort. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you gasp. “Probably better to just do this all at once, rather than drag it out.” You cling on to him and bury your face in his shoulder as he resumes moving, stretching you well past your limits—

And the resistance he’s been working against gives and he sinks in the rest of the way.

You let out a gasp at the sensation. It’s an adjustment –to say the least—but… it doesn’t hurt.

Piotr watches your face carefully as you get used to everything. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I just…”

You expected so much more pain. Purity class did more to scare you away from sex for all eternity than educate you. Even with a –respectfully presented—thorough sex ed course from Wade, you hadn’t exactly dropped your preconceptions that having sex for the first time would be painful.

Anyway.

What you  _mean_  to say is something to the effect of expecting more pain, or the sensation of Piotr being  _inside you_  being new.

What you  _actually_  say, however: “I just expected you to be bigger.”

Piotr just stares at you, agape.

You blink at him, then let out a mortified howl of laughter when you realize what you  _actually just said_. “Wait –no! No! That’s not what I meant!”

Piotr starts laughing, too –big, fully, body-wracking belly laughs. He drops his head against your neck and outright  _guffaws_. “Wow.”

“I am  _so sorry_!” you manage between rounds of hysterical giggling. “That’s not what I meant, like, at all!”

“I can only imagine what you meant now,” Piotr chuckles as he props himself back up.

“I’m  _serious_ , I swear! I was thinking that I was gonna be in a lot more pain  _because_  you’re obviously, uh,  _very_  well-endowed, and there isn’t really any pain, and I just—” You clap your hands over your face and let out an embarrassed screech.

“Wow.” He laughs again. “I… I do not think I have ever had complaints about that before.”

“I wasn’t complaining! Your size is fine, I promise!”

He just laughs harder.

You do your best to disappear into the covers. “Kill me, please.”

Piotr chuckles, then gently pries your hands away from your face. He kisses your forehead, the bridge of your nose, and then your lips. “I love you.”

You smile –a little sheepishly—at him. “I love you, too.”

He kisses you again, cradling you in his arms as he gently rolls his hips against yours.

And then, well, there’s nothing to really say after that.

**Author's Note:**

> I lied I'm very sorry and I hope none of you suffered too bad.


End file.
